Botched Up
by zrose
Summary: Mrs. Lovett seems different. Wait, since when has Sweeney ever noticed anything about her? Isn't he supposed to be the only one around here to go through an identity shift? What's a Muggle, and where or when is our favorite red-haired baker? HP crossove
1. Prologue

(The crossover fic has been done to death, and I think the trend has kind of passed, but oh well. The Latin may not be grammatically correct, sorry about that. It means, "Time is the river of life, descend into the water. We sink to your will." Lame, yes, but best I could come up with. Enjoy. I own nothing.)

"Men are born to succeed, not fail."

-Henry David Thoreau

The plan was simple enough. She would arrive on time, dress for the part, and then finish the mission. She would promptly return back to headquarters, and the world would be rid of one less annoying, meddling twit.

Bella smiled as she tightened the ribbons on her black corset. Her wiry figure had lost any semblance of curves after her stint in prison, but she'd fix that with a few spells. She was the only one asked to go on such an important mission. Not even Professor I'm-So-High-and-Mighty-for-Killing-a-Weak-Old-Man Snape. She'd show that half-blood that she was superior, and always was. That stupid incident at the Ministry was all Lucius's fault anyway. Besides, where's the fun in doing in a person when they are aware that it will happen, and when everything's been said and done? It is much more delicious to disappoint them, nip all that potential in him in the bud and let them stew over in regret over what could have been.

With a quick flick of her wand, she turned her frizzy black hair a dirty shade of auburn. She glanced at the tattered Muggle photograph. Close enough. She quickly tore the picture into tiny pieces. As much as she would not like to admit it, the stillness of the woman scared her more that her cold glare.

She straightened out the old dress and made sure the fabric was evenly around the crinoline. With a quick look-over, she headed to the main hall of the Riddle House.

"Very good, Bella," her Master appraised her with approval. "Stand over there."

Her Master was quite pleased with himself. Once Bella sent word that her task was completed, he would make his own journey. He would change his mistakes. After all, who could be a better mentor to himself other than himself?

He pointed to the middle of a giant circle. The other Death Eaters had gathered around and were chanting the incantation needed for the spell.

"Vicis est flumen de vita, successio in aequora. Nos subsido ut vestri mos."

Snape handed her a flask of a thick, blue liquid. "Drink this."

Bella glared at him, but obeyed, Suddenly, her blood chilled, and she felt faint. The dim lights of the candles burst with the glow of the sun. The chanting became louder and louder, almost as if the others were screaming from the top of their lungs. The last thing she could remember was the faint felling of being pricked with a thousand little needles.


	2. Failed

(I'm bending time here a little. Isla would probably been born the year this is set, 1846, and any children she would have had would be younger than Dumbledore, but I hope no one will mind. I can't remember if the Dumbledore's lived on a hill, but it would be cute if they did.)

Bella's head was throbbing. She groaned, and picked herself up from the divan.

The divan? Where was she? She looked around the room. It was a strange mix of eclectic, Gothic gloom and second-hand kitschy, like a shoddy version of her Aunt Walburga's parlour. She glared at the hideous, slightly charred floral wallpaper. She almost puked at the sight of it.

Not one to waste time, she headed towards the door.

"Where you goin' mum?" The boy seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, filthy Muggle. She was disgusted by its messy hair and lack of personal hygiene.

"Out." She pushed it away from her as it tried to give her some sort of shawl. It would probably pollute her with its Muggleness.

"Wot's wrong wiv your voice? You got the flu or sompthing?"

Bellatrix took a deep breath as she headed out the door, "Just a little bit longer."

"Just a little bit longer…" Sweeney murmured. One more second, his friend pressed securely on the now smooth, white arch of the customer's throat.

No matter what time period, Apparition, the wizarding form of long distance transportation, was still disorienting. She still kept her composure though, and walked purposely up the hill, towards the house.

"And at the top is the little happy family. And the little family will get a nice little surprise." She cackled.

Sweeney pulled the level and heard the deep thud and the sound of cracking bones as the corpse hit the floor. One down, a couple more million bleeders to go until he could get his hands on the Judge. He threw his soiled shirt in the hamper, ready for the wash.

There wasn't anything on the hill. No children, no family, not even a bloody house. She screamed in frustration. Had Master decided to let someone else do the job? Oh, that wretch would pay for stealing what was rightfully hers! Annoyed, she decided to head back to the ugly sitting room.

"Crack!" Back to the hole in the wall. Night had fallen, and Bella hadn't thought that the place could get darker than it already was.

She was stuck. Some idiot forgot to get their dates right (probably that oaf, Wormtail) and now she was stuck almost half a century before Dumbledore was even born.

At least she had a cover. As much as she hated it, she would have to pretend to be Nellie Hitchens Lovett, the stupid result of her disowned great-great-aunt, Isla with some Muggle. How could anyone be so depraved as to marry one of them? Stuck as a half-blood. How ironic.

Disappointed, she slumped onto the divan.

The boy ran in, looking worried. "Whut wos that? Didja 'ear a pistol go off mum?" Ignorant whelp. It wasn't worth eliciting a response. She sat there in her despondency.

Sweeney wondered why Mrs. Lovett hadn't come up to give him dinner, or take up the laundry. Granted, he was glad for an evening without her mindless prattle, and he knew he could live without the dinner. He did need clean shirts though. He used up his last one on the most recent customer. He debated over whether or not getting out of his chair and searching for Mrs. Lovett was worth the effort. His thirst for revenge won over his daily brooding addiction. He sighed, and with great deliberation, trudged downstairs.

She was not in the bake house. She was not out in the shop. Everything seemed to be desolate, and for once silent.

He began to wonder whether or not the old bird had croaked when he saw her moping in the sitting room.

"Ahem." He coughed, hoping to get her attention. She just sat there.

"Ahem." No response.

"Woman, are you deaf?" She gave him the iciest glare he had ever received before her face was once again stony.

"I need you to wash my shirts."

"Go do it yourself." What on Heaven's name was wrong with her? She always had time for his requests, and never spoke to him in that way. Besides, he had asked politely. He glared back at her.

"What did you say?" First she told him to wait, and ruined his plan for revenge, not she was just being rude. He reached for his razor.

"Do I have to repeat myself? Fine then. I will not wash your dirty shirts. Now, go away."

He paused for a moment. "Is something wrong with your voice?"

"My voice is perfectly fine," she snarled. Sweeney wondered if his landlady was putting on airs with that elegant little warble of hers, but concluded that it was probably a cold. Yes, the woman was just delirious.

He growled, "Go back to the bake house. Maybe it'll clear your head up." Glad to be over with that. He left.

Even though she hated the rigmarole that came with a wizarding aristocratic background, she did expect some common courtesy. Actually, she expected common courtesy from a pureblood; she demanded that a Muggle should kiss her feet. The nerve of him, waltzing in and ordering her around! She was about to follow the insolent cockroach and teach him a lesson on etiquette when she saw the door. She saw the red glow coming from the cracks on the side, through the iron hinges. She could feel the heat radiating out, and there was a faint scent of something very familiar.

She opened the door and descended down the inferno.

She saw the bake house in all its glory. The bodies, the carnage, the blazing oven on full heat. She saw the dough, and fell in love with the idea. Serving Muggles their own filth. Although she did not want to give the half-blood any credit, it was ingenious.

Perhaps this was not unpleasant, as she had expected.


	3. More Bloody Clothes

Her head was pounding. She didn't know what was going on, and her vision was too hazy to observe anything.

"What should we do with her, my Lord?"

She knew that sniveling little grovel anywhere. She vaguely hoped that whatever was going on was not some horrible, Lucy-esque evening of fun and frivolity.

The only things she could see in the dark were glowing masks. Couldn't he come up with another theme for his parties? A potluck would be nice.

She waited for what was going to come.

"Lock her up in Bella's room. We will burn everything in there later."

She blinked. Well, that was unexpected.

Her vision started to clear up, and she finally saw where she was. She turned to see the horrifying monster ruling over them all. He was a thin, ghastly man with no hair and, astonishingly enough for her, no nose. Someone grabbed her arm and dragged her across the floor, causing painful rug burns on her legs from the friction.

Eventually, she was thrown into a bedroom. She tried escaping by picking the lock with one of her many hairpins, but failed miserably. After half an hour, she was too exhausted to keep trying, and decided to just make use of the room and fall asleep.

She didn't know how long she was in that room. It could have been for days, or maybe even minutes. Either way, she couldn't stand it in there. The place had the same overbearing sense of gloom as Mr. T's shop, but it was not as Spartan. Actually, it was gilded to the hilt with silver all over the walls and covered in thick, dark brocade. The canopy bed took up most of the space in the room, but there was also a small, dark red bureau in the corner. She had tried opening it, but it was locked. Not a bad room at all, fit for a real lady, but could use some cheering up. A vase of daisies wouldn't hurt.

Finally, someone came for her. He dragged her once again to the awful hall and threw her into the center of a circle that the group had formed.

"It's amazing we didn't kill you off when you first got here." One of the masked people laughed.

Another agreed, "I can't believe we were willing to risk being contaminated this scum." Nellie felt her blood boil. What right did they have to insult her for being hard up? So what if she was poor, she was still human!

"I hope her screams are worth all the trouble we went through." One of them raised a long, black baton at her. What was a stick going to do?

"SILENCE!"

The masked figures stopped breathing. She could tell by how stiff their robes were. They waited for the horrible, noseless man to speak.

"We cannot kill her... yet, I will not have you fools ruining the stream of time. We must find a use for her."

She had to show them she was worth something. Her survival skills were kicking in.

"I cud clean, an' cook good too! I'll do anythin' yeh need me ta do!" She never really had much faith in religion, but right now she was praying with all her might that they were listening to her.

The Death Eaters collectively winced at the woman's accent. It was bad enough that she looked like Bellatrix, but did she also have to be so uncouth?

"Very well then. Get started." A mop and a bucket of water appeared out of thin air. Nellie rubbed her eyes a moment. That couldn't have happened.

"What about the House Elves sir?" asked one of the masked men in the grating voice possible.

"I've restricted the number we are going to keep. I can't have too many knowing where I am right now."

Another cut in, "They would not tell." The Death Eaters were stunned. Life without House Elves? Impossible!

"You think they'd know better wouldn't you? If I recall correctly, Lucius, one of your former Elves was not very discreet at all, even with your impressive use of precautions." The man didn't respond.

"Now that the matter is settled," the noseless man replied coolly, "We can get back to business."

He waved Nellie away, "You may go now." Another one of them, probably the same one who took her out of the room, grabbed her arm.

She remembered hearing something similar to a pistol go off, and feeling dizzy and in pain. She hastily looked for bullet holes, but luckily found none.

They were in some sort of tiny kitchen. How did that happen?

The man pointed at a large tub, a bar of soap, and a huge pile of bloody robes. She must be going mad, even in her nightmares she was washing bloody clothes.

"Get to work." As he glided towards the door, she couldn't help but notice that his voice sounded like the great and honorable judge Turpin.

Snape smirked a little a he closed the door. Finally, after these agonizing months of putting up with Bellatrix and her sadistic craziness, he had a small way of getting back at her. He mentally reminded himself to bring more robes to wash.


End file.
